


The Case of Thistledown House

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Haunting, M/M, SPN Eldritch Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26898676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Sam and Dean head to West Virginia to investigate what they think is going to be a normal salt and burn. Except once they've salted and burned, there's still another death! The Winchesters must dig into local history and experience some haunting encounters for them to expose an old crime and stop more deaths from happening--perhaps even theirs!
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 222
Collections: Supernatural Eldritch Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 SPN Eldritch Bang. Thanks so much to the Eldritch mods for another year of this, one of my favorite challenges!!
> 
> I was so incredibly lucky to be picked by [phoenix1966](Phoenix1966.livejournal.com)!!! I have admired her work for so long. She pounced on this story and immediately began to pull images out of my brain and manifest them for all to see. Her creativity and artistry are spectacular, as I'm sure you will agree. Thank you so very much, Nic!!! Please go to her [Art Post](https://phoenix1966.livejournal.com/38193.html) and see all of her amazing art!!!
> 
> Thanks to my alpha readers and support circle: [roxymissrose](roxymissrose.livejournal.com), [merenwen76](merenwen76.livejournal.com), [rocketmojo](rocketmojo.livejournal.com), [jesse_cristo](jesse_cristo.livejournal.com), [jld71](jld71.livejournal.com), and [dwimpala21](dwimpala21.livejournal.com). Added to that group are my fabulous betas, [jerzcaligrl](jerzcaligrl.livejournal.com) and [theatregirl7299](theatregirl7299.livejournal.com). You ladies buoy me up and keep me going! Thank you!!!

Part 1

"Another day, another salt and burn, yeah?" Dean rummaged in his bag of peanut M&M's with one hand, keeping the other on Baby's steering wheel. The crinkling of the bag could barely be heard over the hum of the tires speeding down the asphalt. He glanced at Sam while popping chocolate-peanutty goodness in his mouth, just catching his brother's annoyed sigh.

"Can't you eat something quieter?" Sam complained, his nose wrinkling. 

"Nope. Got half the food groups in one handy snack." Dean grinned, sure that his teeth were brown with chocolate and thus guaranteed to gross Sam out.

"Ugh! Dean! Gross!"

Target achieved! Dean mentally chalked up a point.

In retribution, Sam pulled out a paper map and made a great show of rustling and unfolding it.

"Dude, isn't this why we have Google maps?"

Sam sniffed. "Sometimes Google doesn't have the little side or back roads. It's good to check with the old maps sometimes." He rustled a little more.

Dean sighed. "Okay, nerd boy. Where exactly are we headed?"

"Greenville, West Virginia. It's in the foothills of the Appalachians. Pretty rural around it, but it's an actual town--school, library, sheriff."

"Greenville--wow, doesn't get more American small town than that, huh?" Dean threw the last M&Ms into his mouth and tossed the empty bag into the back seat.

"Yeah. We're looking into a possible haunted house that someone caught wind of and notified Jody. Shouldn't be any big deal, just find the bones and torch them." Sam folded the map back up and stuffed it into the glove box. "I bet it'll be pretty there, foothills and early autumn and all."

Dean snorted. "Pretty is as pretty does, my boy. It all looks the same over a burning grave."

Sam sighed. "I guess you're right."

The town was in fact very pretty; lots of older houses, and a sense of pride in the community as evidenced by the tidy hedges and neat lawns. The town center had a cluster of old, dark brick buildings set around a large grass roundabout with the obligatory gazebo and statue of the town's founder, Phineas Schuckle. Sam spied the library, the town hall, the police station, the Methodist church and parish hall. Two and three-story clapboard houses lined the streets branching off the green, interspersed with small shops and businesses. It was a town that "picturesque" was made to describe.

Sam loved it, despite his knowledge that even pretty little towns like this often still had their dark underbelly. Crimes and motives about evil and darkness, cruelty and death, were found everywhere, regardless of how charming or quaint a place looked. He wished yet again that someplace could actually be this serene, and that one day he'd find this serenity for himself.

Well, for himself and Dean.

Now, however, it was time to find a motel and get started on the case.

The Greenbrier Motel was near the edge of town furthest from the mountains. It was one of those motels where it was made up of little cabins rather than connected rooms--small one or two room units separated by their driveways. As usual, they got the end unit, a one bedroom with a small living area and a mini kitchenette. Parking Baby, Dean and Sam unloaded their duffles and the bags from the mini market where they'd stopped to get snacks, water, and beer.

"I vote for a pizza here and we can review what we know," said Dean. "There's a diner a couple of blocks back toward the green--we can hit that for breakfast tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan." Sam loosened his boots and kicked them off. "I'm ready to stretch out and get comfortable." He slid his laptop out of the bag, sitting at the table in the living area and booting up. 

Dean made a call for the pizza and put a beer on the table next to Sam. 

"Okay, so what do we have?" Dean settled down on the couch, taking a long, slow pull of his beer. Sam watched his throat stretch, watched it move as he drank. The mark at the base of it was fading, the dark bruise now just a light yellow shadow. _Gonna mark you again,_ Sam thought. _Warn off the girls, let them know that you're taken._ He felt a little smile curl on his lips, enough to make Dean look at him and smirk.

"You're thinking about marking me again, ain't ya? Possessive bastard," chuckled Dean. His fingers ghosted over the bruise. 

"Maybe," said Sam. Pulling up his notes on the case, he heard Dean snicker.

They heard the knock on the door for the pizza, and Dean got up.

"Hold that thought until later. Food and case now."

After the first slice had been downed, Sam started to go over what they knew so far.

38 Thistledown Lane was a house built in the early 1800s, situated right on the edge of the mountains. Of course, it had been through many owners, and had been modernized and renovated through the years. Currently it was owned by Rich and Ashley Driver. Rich was in IT and worked primarily at home with occasional trips around the country. Ashley was a stay-at-home mom to their five-year-old twins, Dakota and Cheyenne. (Dean groaned at that part. "Damn hipsters!" Sam couldn't hold back his snicker.)

The Drivers had arranged a "date night", so had hired local teenager Winnie Napier, a fourteen-year-old girl who was a regular sitter for the Drivers and several other families. She was responsible, CPR-certified, and the kids all loved her. Feeling secure on the well-being of their children under Winnie's care for three hours, the Drivers went out to dinner two weeks ago. ("And a fuck in the back seat, no dinner takes three fucking hours," remarked Dean.) When they returned, Winnie and the twins were barricaded in the master bedroom walk-in closet, Winnie armed with the fireplace poker. The twins had babbled about a 'see-through lady' who 'smelled like 'old clothes'. Winnie backed up their description in more adult terms.

"So we got a ghost. We know who or why?" Dean drank some beer before snagging a third piece of pizza.

"Well, of course a house this old has a lot of history. Probably most recent was in the sixties, it was actually a home for, um, 'wayward girls'--you know, girls that got pregnant and the families sent them away to have the baby." Sam busily tapped the keys.

"Jesus, that's cold. And ridiculous." Dean frowned at his pizza, as if it was responsible.

Sam shrugged. "I agree, but it was a different time. Out-of-wedlock pregnancy was a big scandal. A lot of the time, the babies were adopted and then the girl went home, where the families would say she'd been on a trip, or away at school." He scanned his screen. "Says here that one girl, distraught over having her baby taken away for adoption, killed herself. That would sure account for a ghost, and her attraction to the twins."

"Sounds like a winner, Sammy. Name and grave site? We can wrap this up tonight and be on our way." 

"Susie Overton, age seventeen. Buried in Peaceful Acre cemetery." Sam finally took another slice of pizza. "We already have the room, let's stay tonight and head out after breakfast, double check our info."

"You got it. Maybe I can help you wash your hair after digging, huh?" Dean winked at Sam, who felt a flush warm his cheeks.

"Maybe you can."

Dean slung the shovels and gas can into Baby's trunk. The salt and burn had gone smoothly, with only a last minute appearance of poor Susie, who looked imploringly at them as they threw the match on her bones.

"Sorry, Susie, can't have you scaring the kids anymore," said Dean, brushing the dirt off his jeans. He always felt a little sorry for spirits like this--trapped by grief, unable to move on. He hoped she would find some peace now.

When he and Sam got back to the room, they took that shower together. The shower was a little small, but since they were all wrapped up in each other, it worked fine. Dean washed Sam's thick hair, and Sam soaped Dean's muscular back and ass. After a delicious happy ending, they stood together and let the water sluice down their tired muscles before drying off and flopping into bed.

Breakfast was all the tastier the next morning, with good sex, a good night's sleep, and the knowledge they'd put a sad ghost on her way into the light. Dean happily crunched his crispy bacon while Sam spooned up his yogurt parfait, and they split a stack of pancakes. Sam was just scanning his iPad for any new cases when the sheriff came in for some coffee and a Danish. Their server Marie, a teenager in the standard waitress uniform (pastel pink in this case) met him at the counter.

"Sheriff, is it true?" asked Marie, her smooth, young face marred with frown lines and fearful eyes. Sam kicked Dean under the table for a heads up and nodded toward her.

"Yes, I'm afraid it is." Sheriff Norton shook his head, sighing heavily. His brown and beige police uniform was badly wrinkled, like he'd been up all night. "Bad business, bad business. A real shame."

Dean and Sam looked at each other as they strained to hear what the 'bad business' was.

"They were just at the Hart and Horn Inn the other night for dinner. Winnie's my best friend and she told me they had gone out for date night." Tears rolled down Marie's eyes. "It's so horrible."

 _What's horrible?_ mouthed Dean at Sam. Sam shook his head, just as puzzled as his brother.

"Yeah, that poor woman, left widowed with two kids." The sheriff took a big gulp of coffee.

Sam caught his breath--was it...

"My heart just breaks thinking of it. Poor Ashley, what's she going to do now, just her and the twins?"

Sam and Dean both started. Rich Driver was dead? Rich Driver, who they had just salted and burned Susie Overton for? 

"What the hell?" murmured Dean. Sam felt shocked, like he'd been punched in his stomach, and he could see the same shock reflected in Dean's eyes. "Son of a bitch!"

They waited a few more minutes, hoping to overhear some more information. Sheriff Norton unknowingly obliged, letting them know that Rich had fallen down the stairs and broken his neck during the previous night, before he left the diner with his coffee.

Their appetites dissipated, Dean threw money on the table with a generous tip for Marie. He and Sam headed back to the motel, where they went in and paid for their room for a couple more nights. Clearly the case was not closed here.

"It's too coincidental." Sam ran a hand through his hair agitatedly. "Obviously it's not Susie who's the issue, plus it's way too fluky that Rich just happened to die the same night we torched her."

"Yep. So something else is going on." Dean sat down on one of the metal and 'pleather' chairs near the small table. "Fuck. I thought we had it. Fuck fuck fuck."

Sam sat down too and brought his laptop out. "Okay, so it's not Susie. Although she did get to move on." He booted the laptop up. "I guess that's something."

Dean was quiet. It was something, but it didn't counterbalance Rich Driver's death, and both Sam and Dean knew it.

Sam got into the police files and looked up the report on Rich.

"Death attributed to a fall down the stairs, resulting in a total cervical fracture. No evidence of criminal activity, looks like a tragic household accident." He scoffed. "No evidence that you can see, Sheriff."

"Shit. Does it say if the wife and kids are still in the house?"

"Uhhhhh, they are _not_ there. They're staying with her aunt next town over for the time being."

"Okay, so let's wait a couple of hours and go check out the house."

The plan was to delve further into the local history the next day when the library and historical society were open, but they agreed that taking a look at the house was the best use of their time at the moment.

When they arrived at 38 Thistledown Lane, they found the house was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, but the police cars were gone for now, the driveway and street empty. Dean and Sam moved into the woods that lined the house's generously sized yard. Nosy neighbors were not a problem on a lot this size. When they reached the backyard, the Winchesters left the trees and walked into the yard itself; an expanse of velvety green lawn, well-manicured and inviting.

It was clearly the yard of a family with children. A wooden playset sat in the middle of the area, a large edifice featuring a slide, three swings, and a small fort with a ladder. Dean looked at it, wondering what it was like for kids to have something like that to play on. He and Sam had never had anything like it, of course. The best they'd had was crappy pools set in the concrete parking lots of the motels they'd lived in, or the crowded, battered swing sets of the many schools they'd passed through. Not like they'd had much time to play anyway. The Winchesters' childhood had been full of shooting drills, training runs, and for Dean, taking care of his little brother. He sighed. Whatever, it was all long over and done with.

They moved over to the deck, a large raised wood structure attached to the back of the house. A grill ruled at one end, with a big table nearby and several chairs placed around it. A sliding glass door gave easy access to the interior of the house; good for kids running in and out, and serving platters of food to guests, Dean guessed.

 _What's a life like this feel like?_ he thought briefly, pausing on the deck. _Such ease, such...luxury._ He bet all the towels inside matched, that the carpets didn't have nebulous stains on them, that the refrigerator was large and full of fresh food and cold beer. No broken windows, not moldy smell, no threadbare sheets no--

Monsters.

"Cut the crap, Winchester," Dean muttered to himself. "Get busy and find out what's happening here. You have a job to do."

"You say something?" asked Sam in a soft voice, waiting by the side of the sliding door.

"Just keep your eyes open," Dean answered grumpily.

They entered the house easily, turning off the alarm outside before opening the sliding door and slipping inside.

The house was really quite large. From the outside, it was clear to see that additions had been built through the years. The kitchen was huge, and one side of it opened right into the dining room. On the other side was the living room, also a very large, open room. Dean figured that the three rooms were the bones of the original house, with walls knocked down more recently to open up the space. Past the living room was a hallway with a laundry room, full bath, and two bedrooms across from each other. A stairway in the inner center wall of the kitchen led upstairs, where there were four more large bedrooms and two full baths. A third floor had smaller rooms--servant's quarters, in the old days, perhaps. Another bath, and then there was a large, open room that ran out over the two car garage for storage. Dean could see suitcases, red and green plastic Christmas bins, and an assortment of boxes there.

 _What...ordinariness. Putting away the suitcases after the vacation in the Bahamas, bringing out the ornaments in December. The kids' clothes and toys that they outgrew. No one had to leave crap behind here because they had to bug out for a hunt,_ thought Dean. Again his heart twinged as he thought about Sam and Jessica living in a big house like this, with kids' laughter echoing. Holidays, anniversaries, birthdays--all celebrated joyously, instead of shabby gifts and lopsided cupcakes.

 _Jesus, buck up, Winchester! You're turning into a big sap here!_ he admonished himself. _Sam's fine, just fine. He's down with the hunting nowadays, no regrets._

Dean returned to the ground floor, resolutely putting images of Sam wearing polo shirts and golf shorts and Jessica in a gauzy dress out of his mind's eye. Sam was leaning on the granite kitchen counter, the gears in his head clearly turning, but he shook his head at Dean's questioning eyebrow.

They knew that Rich had apparently fallen down the front stairway, located in the foyer at the front door, rather than the back staircase here in the kitchen. They went out there and examined the stair treads, all of which looked sturdy and sound. The thick wood treads were stained a beautiful warm maple, with a white wood railing that ran up the staircase and a matching maple banister.

Dean tested the stairs and banister, checking if they were slippery or wiggly. Nope. He went up the stairs. Nothing squeaked or moved under his feet. No toys littered the landing, and there were no scuff marks indicating shoes slipping on the wood. The Drivers did not have a pet, so no tripping over Bitsy the cat. 

Sam watched everything from the foot of the stairs. Dean knew his brother was observing closely, studying everything around them. Dean couldn't see anything amiss here, except that nothing _was_ amiss. There was nothing to indicate how a healthy, able man had fallen down the stairs to his immediate demise.

"You see anything?" he asked Sam. Sam shook his head and shrugged.

"Everything looks good to me. No clue here."

They took one more look around. Even a house like this--comfortable, elegant, homey--couldn't protect someone from the vagaries of fate, apparently. Just went to show, danger was everywhere.

Closing the sliding door behind them, they walked back out onto the patio.

"Pretty sweet, huh?" said Sam, looking around. 

"You wish that you--" Dean coughed and broke off his sentence. How did one even ask something like that?

How did someone answer it?

Sam sighed. "It might have been nice, once. But it's not my life, and it never was." He stepped down onto the lush grass. "Come on, let's get some dinner and beer. I saw a chicken place that looked good, you know, real homemade stuff."

He walked off toward the trees. Dean looked around once more.

_"Dad! Mom! Watch me!"_

_A blond boy raced around the yard with a model airplane in one hand, a younger girl with light brown ringlets chasing after him._

_"Okay kids! Wash up for dinner! Dad's going to fire up the grill for burgers." Jessica calls out from the sliding door._

_Sam comes out carrying the platter of burgers. Jess kisses him on the cheek._

_"Don't think you're getting away with that," teases Sam, as he puts the platter on a table next to the grill. He grabs Jess and pulls her in for a serious smooch._

_"Oh man, they're kissing again! Gross!" grouses the boy, and Jess and Sam break apart laughing._

_'Just wait, Johnny, You'll kiss a special girl one day, and it won't be gross!" Sam says, eyes twinkling, and then he begins to put the burgers on the grill._

Dean bit his lip. He knew that Sam, at one point in his life, would have wanted nothing so much as this. Beautiful wife, beautiful kids, beautiful house. And Dean had wanted him to have it.

But even as the idyllic scene faded in his mind's eye, Dean could not deny the dark, secret feeling in his heart. Sam was _his._ The flip side of all that bright joy was that Sam was right here, right now, in Dean's life as his brother.

His partner, in all ways. 

And Dean did not have the strength to deny his happiness about that. Even when it sometimes made him despise himself for his venality, the fact remained that Sam was his, now and forever.

He hastened into the yard and went to catch up with his brother.

A breeze fluttered through the house. The intruders were gone.

_Just us, as it should be_

_Just us._

_Just us_

A whispery chorus joined in.

A door shut upstairs. 

_Why now  
why now why now why now_

A creak sounded, as if someone had stepped on a loose stair tread.

_The men...men gone_

_yes yes men gone gone gone_ was the answer.

_Shhh safe now_

_safe now_

_safe now_

_safe now_

_Sad...sadness...one sad.....sad..........sad_

_like us_

_sad like ussss_

_like ussssssssss_

_so sad_

_so sad_

_so sad_

A sigh displaced the still air.

_so sad_

_a life mutated_

_hopes rotted_

_yet again_

_again again again again again_

Air whistled through a crack, sobbing thinly.

_shhhhhhhhhhh sleep sleep sleep_

Dean settled down with a beer. The chicken place had indeed looked and smelled good, so they had gotten Southern fried chicken and sides--coleslaw, corn, mashed potatoes with gravy. Everything was homemade, fresh and delicious, so delicious that Sam was shooting a bitch face at Dean's loud moans of delight.

"Oh baby, come on, you're just jealous it ain't your dick I'm moaning about," teased Dean, licking his greasy lips. He snagged another drumstick and tore into it.

"Fuck you, I made you moan like that just the other night. No, it's your manners, or the lack thereof, pig-face." Sam wrinkled his nose at Dean while devouring his own chicken, following it with a heaping forkful of coleslaw. "Jesus this is so good! This is what Southern cooking is all about!" He dug into the mashed potatoes, drizzling gravy all over them.

"Okay, so we've gone through the house, and found bupkis there. Everything was clean and perfect, no signs of funny business. Tell me you found something digging around online." Dean burped loudly before mixing a big spoonful of corn into his mashed potatoes.

"Okay." Sam wiped his mouth with a napkin and drank some beer before saying more. "Yeah, I did." With his one clean pinky, he nudged his notes closer. "Now, we had stopped digging into the house's history when we found out about Susie. Well, there's a lot more to that history. It was built around 1800, and you were right about it being expanded through the years. They opened the original house into bigger rooms and added the bedrooms and bathroom first. Later, the second floor was built, with the third floor added shortly thereafter. Big house back then needed servants and rooms for them. The lot was originally even larger, almost hard to believe since it's still so large, but some of it was sold off."

"Don't tell me it was built on an Indian cemetery," Dean snorted.

Sam glared at him. "Native American, Dean. And no. But after the expansions, the house was bought by a charitable group rather than another family. It was established as a 'spinster's house', a house for single ladies who had no family."

Dean pushed his plate away. "Can't take another bite or I'll pop." He belched, eliciting another grimace from Sam. "Hey, gotta let it out one way or another, dude!" 

Sam just rolled his eyes and started cleaning up, putting leftover food in the mini fridge and bagging up the bones and trash. He washed his hands and picked the laptop back up, scrolling down the page.

"Yeah, rooming houses or boarding houses back then were gender-specific, and this one was just for women. They weren't all older women either--looks like it ran the gamut from sixteen or eighteen to eighty."

Dean finally got up to wash his greasy hands as well. "So, is there something for us in this?"

"I'm not sure, but I wanted to look into the history more thoroughly, since the salt and burn didn't fix anything, except for poor Susie." Sam frowned. "It looks like--wow, okay." He gave a short whistle.

Dean sat back down with a fresh beer. "Come on, you can't say something like that and leave me hanging."

Sam shook his head. "Well, this house was running for a few years, overseen by a Miss Sylvie Krause. The house provided a lot of services to the town: childcare, cooking, housework, and midwifery. It brought in some income for the women and kept the house running."

"Sounds hunky dory so far."

"Yeah, but...the town, or I should say the townsmen, began finding fault with them and calling them 'uppity'. People started whispering that the women were witches, and stopped hiring them. No one wanted to deal with them anymore."

Dean leaned back, putting his feet up on one of the beds. "Let me guess--this doesn't end well."

"Nope." Sam grimaced. "A group of men burst into the house one night and shot all the women, killing them in their beds."

"Jesus!" Dean's feet thumped onto the floor. "That's fucked up!"

"Seriously," Sam agreed. "After that, the house sat empty for a few years. The town started to gentrify, and eventually a wealthy family bought the house--that's when they sold off some of the property--and renovated it. It's been occupied ever since, but..." Sam hummed under his breath for a moment. "Yeah, the turnover has been pretty consistent. House goes up for sale about every five or six years."

"Well, _that's_ not suspicious at all," Dean scoffed. "Good job there, Sammy."

Sam shut the laptop. "We'll have to figure out if they really were witches, and then what happened to the bodies. But for now, we're off the clock." He got up and went over to Dean, kneeling before him. "I think since you brought home such a fine meal, I should...thank you." He smiled as his hands slid up Dean's denim-clad thighs and began to undo his belt.

Dean's eyes darkened. "Well, Sammy, I sure would appreciate your thanks." He grinned as Sam opened his fly and slipped his hand in. "Oh yeah, I'm definitely gonna appreciate it..."

The next morning, Sam and Dean breakfasted at the diner again. Instead of Marie, their server this time was a middle-aged woman named Peggy, according to her name tag. Peggy's hair was sprayed into a 1950's do that went well with her antique gold uniform. She had a maternal air, fussing that they had enough coffee and napkins, that the bacon was crisp enough, did they want anything else.

"I'm stuffed, ma'am, but thank you," said Dean, patting his stomach.

"Okay then. Here's your bill, but take your time, we're not busy right now." Peggy smiled at them before walking back up the counter, her sturdy white shoes noiseless on the black and white linoleum floor.

"Think there's any point asking her about the history?" asked Dean.

Sam shrugged. "Fifty-fifty. If she's lived here all her life, there's a shot at her knowing something helpful."

They left a nice tip on the table and went up to the register with their bill. Peggy slid 'Henry Schneider's' card through and wished them a good day. About to leave, Dean turned back with a charming smile.

"Hey, Peggy? You know anything about the history of the town here? It looks like one of those places just chock-full of interesting stories."

"Oh my, well, some I guess." Peggy looked thoughtful, leaning one elbow on the cash register. "What didja want to know?"

Dean looked to one side, then the other. "I heard something about a house of witches," he said in a lowered voice. "We just love finding spooky stories like that. Sam here can't get enough of them." He smacked Sam on the back, earning a bitch-face for his troubles before Sam gave Peggy a tight smile

"Sure do. Just love them."

Peggy giggled. "Well, we did have some witches here once, long time ago. Story was that they were spreading bad juju, you know? People falling sick and such. There's a small coal mine up the mountain a bit, and it collapsed all of a sudden, killed a few of the townsfolk. That was blamed on them too." She shrugged. "'Course I don't know what's true or anything. Could just be old wives' tales, ya know? You could check at the historical society--they're just a couple of buildings up from the library."

"Thank you, darlin'." Dean took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Peggy's cheeks turned pink, and she giggled again. Sam nodded to her, elbowing Dean in his ribs as they turned and left.

"Hey, found something out, didn't I?" Dean elbowed him back.

"Yeah, yeah, you did. At the loss of my manhood." Dean snickered at Sam's annoyance. Sam continued, "Listen, I'll hit the library and you check out the historical society, and tonight we can hopefully deal with this once and for all."

"You got it, Sammy You're the man with a plan!"

Dean's chuckling followed Sam all the way down the sidewalk.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean walked up the forested slope behind the town, leading into the mountains. He was supposed to be doing research at the historical society in town, but...well, it just seemed so very stuffy on a beautiful day like today. Instead, he decided enjoy the fresh air and look around the area. Greenville was located at the foothills of the Appalachians, and he knew there was a lot of folklore and mystery in that area. Perhaps it pertained to their case. It couldn't hurt to scope it out a little.

The slope was not so densely forested that he couldn't make his way easily, although there was no semblance of a path. The ground was thickly covered in leaves and tree debris. Birds sang in the tree branches above, and the sunlight filtered down, bathing everything in a warm, greenish light. The loudest sound was his feet crunching on the forest floor, but otherwise, it was very peaceful.

The sense of peace made it marginally less disturbing when he stumbled upon what could be a graveyard. Wooden fencing, faded gray by the weather and the years, made an irregular circle in a clearing, with a single large rock lying in the center. Dean was momentarily taken aback, but he realized quickly what this graveyard could signify. He stopped and bowed his head in a nod of reverence before walking into the clearing to examine it more closely.

Dean circled slowly around the large, flattish rock. He could see initials and dates scratched crudely into it. The first numbers in the pairs were widely varied, but the second were all the same. Dean caught his breath. Surely this was where the bodies of the women of 38 Thistledown Lane had been buried. The varied dates would be their different birth dates, and the same ending date was the night when their lives all ended in one mighty, horrible blow.

He sat down at one side of the clearing, closing his eyes and just breathing slowly, meditatively. Sam was the one with the visions, but Dean had his moments of sensing things. Long years of contact with the supernatural had lent him some sensitivity to his surroundings, if he gave himself the time and space.

He fell into a bit of a trance in that still, verdant air. The warmth of the sun lulled him into relaxing as he sat on the grass. It seemed like the fence slats started slowly circling around him, and as they did a scene came into being; it was like a shadowplay behind his eyes, even though he could still feel the fresh air and hear the birds singing.

_The women were bedding down for the night. There was chattering about toilettes and such jokes as roommates share; mention of the plans for the morrow, and the dreams they hoped to have tonight. One by one, they slipped into their beds, delicate lawn or cozy flannel nightgowns wrapping around their legs as they slipped beneath their blankets and eiderdowns. Miss Tasie, cheeks pink because Seth had talked with her at market; Miss Mattie, who thought the butcher was looking favorably at her; Miss Nora, who was studying with Miss Ophie about childbirth and illnesses; Miss Portia who taught them the classics; Miss Bertha, who did the cooking, Miss Sylvie who had created this sanctuary for them all. All of them and more, happy and secure in this place, this house, that was their home._

_The midnight bell had long tolled when the doors burst open. A stampede of boots on the varnished floors, the sudden bang of doors flying into the plastered walls. The harsh bellow of men's voices, yelling and shouting, counterpointing with the women's shrill screams and cries of fear._

_The staccato of shots echoing in the clear night air._

_The quiet collapse of fabric and flesh, as the women's bodies fell back onto their beds or crumpled onto the floor, crimson puddles swelling on the shiny wood. The acrid smell of smoke from discharged weapons._

_And finally, the silence that fell after the men had gone and the women had died, a silence that resonated off the walls and shutters, echoing like soft wails in the heavy night air._

Dean came to with a stab of pain in his ribs. He grunted and rubbed the area, feeling the cramp that had set in. The light had grayed and the air was cooler, telling him some time had passed, and he should go find Sam. He rose to his feet, brushing leaves off his clothes, and gave the gravestone a final sad look before setting off down the slope.

The light dimmed more as he descended, and a wind began to whip the leaves into a dancing frenzy. Loose leaves swirled around Dean, batting into his face. Small twigs got caught up as well, smacking into his jacket and limbs. He cursed, wondering how he could have lost track of time like that. Half of his brain was caught up in the...vision? Dream? The women's screams of fear and pain, the roar of the distrustful and angry men, hounded on by their suspicious wives, all echoed in his head.

He slipped and fell to one knee, losing his footing with the stronger gusts and the slippery leaves. Staggering to his feet, Dean looked around and wasn't sure where he was. Was this the way he'd gone up? Which direction was the town? He cursed again and closed his eyes, trying to visualize his earlier route. Opening his eyes again, he picked what seemed likely and began to stomp down it, gritting his teeth against the cold push of the wind and raising his hands to shield his eyes from the twigs and leaves whirling around him.

As he continued to pick his way down, Dean felt that he was being watched. Somewhere eyes were following him. Judging by the way the hair on the back of his neck was prickling, they were unfriendly eyes. He slipped again, catching at slippery branches that escaped from his fingers and let him fall. His thigh landed on a rock, pitching him forward. Dean gasped as he narrowly missed bashing his head on another rock, this one much pointier.

 _Fuck, it's like the whole damn forest is attacking me,_ he thought. _What the hell?_

"Back the fuck off!" he yelled into the gusting wind. "I'll come back with a lighter!"

The wind softened, and leaves fluttered around him rather than smacking into his face.

"Okay then," Dean muttered. "Just so we understand each other."

His downward progress improved, giving him time to muse what was going on with the wacky forest shit. 

_Gotta tell Sam about this. He'll figure it out._

Sam sighed as he left the library. It had been a bust; he'd found no information that his online research hadn't already dug up. He decided to check in at the historical society and see what luck Dean was having, or what was more likely, if he needed to be awoken from a nap.

The historical society looked much like the library--an aged brick building with double doors and arched windows on the second story. Sam entered through the double doors and consulted the floor plan posted in the lobby, then began to look around for Dean.

Who was nowhere to be found.

"Probably found a corner to sleep in," muttered Sam, an equal amount of amusement and annoyance in his voice. "Lazy jerk."

He sighed before deciding that since he was there, he might as well do the research he'd hoped Dean was doing. Perhaps he could find information that would recoup the wasted library run before finding his errant brother.

The historical society was indeed a wealth of information, with many notebooks, diaries, and journals throughout the years of Greenville's existence. Sam easily found several in the years he was interested in, specifically 1835-1840.

_ May 18, 1835 _

_The former Beardsley house was rechristened Thistledown House today in a ceremony on the front lawn of the house. The house will be for the use of spinster ladies of all ages, having no homes of their own in which to reside. Miss Sylvie Krause, the organizer of this household, states that the ladies will provide various services to the town populace; to wit, they shall be employed as cooks, housekeepers, nannies, seamstresses, and midwives. "All humans have use and purpose, and here we shall live and be useful," said Miss Sylvie, as the Mayor gave her the key to the house. Afterward, there was tea and cakes for a small celebration._

September 12, 1835

_The little School for Tots which opened recently at Thistledown House has turned out to be quite a success. Miss Tasie Orlov and Miss Bella Abernathy have undertaken to teach the Greenville four and five-year-olds their letters and numbers before they enter first grade. What a charming sight to behold, these lovely, innocent children sitting and reciting so sweetly! Bravo!_

January 22, 1836

_The family of Phillip Anders was tragically bereaved with the loss of their infant of two months, Felice. While Mrs. Anders had indeed been poorly during her confinement, Miss Ophie Adler had been treating her most assiduously with various potions and poultices in an effort to resuscitate her health as she came to term. The baby appeared healthy at birth, but failed to thrive. The entire town extends their condolences to the poor couple on their loss. There will be a special service at the Greenville Methodist Church Sunday the 25th at ten a.m._

October 3rd, 1836

_Mrs. Alice Sidney has been quite ill for the past fortnight. She claims that Miss Delia Pace of Thistledown House was fitting her for a new gown when Mrs. Sidney was pricked most deeply by a pin. Since then, Mrs. Sidney has been suffering from ague, headaches, and a most unseemly digestive ailment. The Greenville Gazette does not know what conclusions to draw, but there are dark whispers about pins creating marks of Satan upon the persons of various ladies circulating in the town._

_ February 27th, 1837 _

__Miss Delia Pace has discontinued her seamstress business, based at Thistledown House, after several complaints of pinpricks and subsequent illnesses have been levied against her. Numerous ladies have complained of odd symptoms after fittings and receiving finished gowns from Miss Delia. She will continue to take in laundry. For any seamstress needs, contact Mrs. Gilda Schiffer at 41 Mountain Oak Road._ _

_ May 8th, 1837 _

_The tot school at Thistledown House has closed abruptly, after several children have fallen ill and complained about 'strange songs' and 'bad tea'. Families quickly withdrew their children after hearing these tales, especially following on the heels of the rumors regarding the seamstress service also at Thistledown House. Miss Tasie Orlov and Miss Bella Abernathy have therefor shut the school down entirely._

_ August 13, 1837 _

_In a recent interview with Dr. Conrad Fisher, he said, "I cannot in good conscience recommend the midwifery service provided by the women of Thistledown House." Continuing on, Dr. Fisher told the Greenville Gazette, "Their beliefs are suspect, and their methods do not reconcile with any tenets of modern medicine as we know it. Just last week, Miss Nora Langdon recommended having the birthing mother get up and walk around as she labored, to ease the birthing pains! What nonsense!" The Gazette recommends any expectant ladies to consult with either Dr. Fisher, or else Dr. Samuel Higginbotham, who both have offices and birthing rooms available at Entwhile House, adjacent to the Town Green._

_ March 23, 1838 _

_The Greenville Police has reported an incident of vandalism at Thistledown House, which involved rock-throwing and ugly words scrawled on the fence slats in red paint. Two of the three front windows were broken. Those in residence at the house lodged a complaint with the police, but were instructed to mind their P's and Q's. "Behave in a proper fashion," Police Chief Farquhar said sternly the women (we hesitate to use the word 'ladies'), "and these incidents would not happen to you." The women left the Police Station in a visibly distressed manner._

__

Sam mulled over what he had read. Clearly the sentiments of the town had taken a downward turn regarding the Thistledown house residents. He checked the date of the last entry he'd read. It was just two weeks before the residents of Thistledown House were killed.

He flipped to some black and white photographs of the House. In one, the ladies were all arranged in front of the house, smiling in unison. It was the House's opening day, and Sam felt a pang at how happy and hopeful all the women looked. Here they'd thought they had found a home, a purpose, and a safe place to live. He sighed again and turned the page.

The next couple of pictures showed the ladies inside the house, involved in their various jobs. Two women cooked amid large pots in the kitchen. In another picture, two others stood in front of half a dozen small children. One woman held slates with letters on them, and the other woman was pointing to the letters. Another picture showed women sewing in a room with bolts of fabric and a couple of mannequins. Visible in the room beyond that was an older woman with two shelves of books behind her and a desk full of little glass bottles off to the side.

Sam gazed at the women, noting the hairstyles, the long, plain gowns, the simple furniture. As he studied the pictures, the women all turned their heads to face him.

Sam yelped and dropped the book. Okay, he'd been staring too long and his eyes had played a trick on him. He took a deep breath, huffed it out, and picked up the book again.

They were all still staring at him.

* * *

_a beautiful young man_

_*a ripple of giggles*_

Sam didn't say it, but the question rang clearly in his head. _**"How..."**_

_we see you_

_we hear you_

_shhhhhhhh_

_Sam...sam...._

_you are safe here_

_s safe_

_yes safe_

_safe...with us_

_**...I don't know what you mean...** _

_oh dear boy_

_we know_

_yes we know_

_we see_

_your life..love taken_

_hopes_

_dreams_

_so beautiful but..._

_gone_

_dashed_

_burnt_

_fire and flame_

_gone so soon and you_

_you never_

_and now_

_trapped_

_chained_

_cannot bring her back  
no_

_no_

_but you can_

_yes_

_be free_

_**What? No, I--you misunderstand, I--my life is good. I like my life.** _

_be free...........freee_

_set you..... freeeeeeeeeee_

Sam came to, dropping the book from his lax hands. Free? From what? From hunting?

From Dean?

His eyes widened. He got up hastily, bumping into the table as he turned to the door.

There was someone he needed to see.

Dean opened the door of their motel room and gave a grunt of relief. While the 'storm' had decreased, it had still been an effort to make his way back to the flat lawns of the town. He dropped into a chair, wrestled out of his boots, (ignoring the leaves and debris that rained down onto the carpet) and tossed his jacket onto the bed. The need for a beer and a shower warred in his head. Beer won, of course.

With an ice cold beer in hand, Dean headed to the shower. By the time he was clean, the beer was gone and he was ready for a second. The only thing was, Sam wasn't back yet.

Dean walked naked across the room, finding his phone and thumbing Sam's number. Swigging that second beer, he grimaced when he got voicemail again, but then the door opened and Sam came in.

"Uh, wow, Dean." Sam slammed the door shut. "Are you really looking to flash the whole motel?"

"Hey, when you've got it..." Dean smirked, spreading his hands wide and wiggling his hips.

Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean saw the flush on his cheeks that signaled his arousal. He advanced on Sam, swaying his hips suggestively. Sam licked his lips, but then he brought his hand up to fend off Dean.

"Not now, dude. I think I've figured something out."

Dean sighed. "Okay, I'll take a raincheck." He went over to the bed and pulled on the clean boxers he'd left there. "What's up?"

Sam's words rushed out from him. "We need to talk to Ashley. I might have a clue as to what's going on, but I need to ask her some questions first."

Dean dropped the sexy wise-guy act. He grabbed jeans and a mostly-clean t-shirt from his duffle, dressing hastily. 

"Okay. Give her a call and we'll head right over."

In the car, Dean wanted to ask Sam about his theory, but he knew his brother was probably still working on putting the pieces together. He could wait until Sam pursued his lead and saw where it went. In the meantime, Dean went ahead and relayed his forest discovery and the subsequent strange events to Sam.

Arriving at Ashley's aunt's residence, Sam got out of the car and strode up the steps of the tidy ranch house, Dean following at his heels. Sam had called ahead, so Ashley readily answered the door, clearly curious about what had brought them there in the evening like this.

They all settled in the living room, sitting on the wagon-wheel print sofa that Dean swore he'd seen in a thousand homes before. Sam was poised right on the edge of his seat, leaning forward eagerly.

"Ashley, I'd like to ask you some questions about your home life." Sam opened the discussion in a calm voice. Dean always admired how Sam could set people at ease right away with his even demeanor.

"Well, I'm not sure what that has to do with my husband's death, but go ahead." Ashely looked perplexed, but nodded her assent.

"Did you work, have a career, before you had the twins?" 

"Yes, I was a nursing administrator at the local hospital."

"And did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I liked it a lot. I enjoyed working with people, feeling like I was helping them. It was difficult at times, but fulfilling."

"And you stopped working when you had the twins, is that correct?" Sam asked.

Her expression dimmed. "Yes, Rich wanted me to be a stay-at-home mother. I wanted it too--I always wanted children, so I didn't want to miss all those firsts, you know?"

Sam nodded sympathetically. "Sure, I get it. But things changed, didn't they?"

Ashley got up and walked to the window, her fingers twisting nervously. "They turned five, and I thought--well, they're going to start school and maybe I could--I could start working again. Even just part-time while they were in school. I thought it was a good compromise."

"Sure, makes sense. Except...Rich didn't agree, did he?"

Dean looked hard at Sam. Was he setting Ashley up for the murder of her husband?

Ashley sat down on a chair next to the windows, looking down at her interlocked hands. "No, he didn't. In fact, he got very...annoyed. He said he thought I'd put all those silly ideas behind me. He wanted me to just stay home, and maybe it was time for us to have another baby." Her fingers twisted in her lap.

"But...you didn't want another baby, did you? Or to stay home? You thought it was time for _you_ again--your dreams, your hopes, outside of your home." Sam said softly. Dean could see the warmth and empathy in Sam's puppy eyes.

Ashley nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "It didn't make sense to me. What was I going to do, sit around the empty house all day? I would have been able to keep up with everything and still be able to work, at least part-time. I couldn't understand Rich's objections. And since we had twins, I didn't want any more children. Two was enough."

"But you went along with him anyway, right?" asked Dean, modulating his voice to maintain the soft tone of the conversation. He was starting to get a glimmer of where Sam was going.

Nodding, Ashley answered, "Yes. I didn't want to fight. I thought maybe if I waited a while, we could talk about it again." She looked up at them pleadingly. "I love my children so much, I do. But that doesn't have to be the end of the rest of my life, does it?"

The tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

Back at the motel room, Dean skipped the beer and went straight to the tequila, pouring some for both of them. Handing a glass to Sam, Dean sat down and took a gulp of his drink. The burn down his throat matched the ache in his heart.

"She didn't do it, did she, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, taking a swallow of his tequila and grimacing. 

"Nope. It wasn't her. But someone saw what was happening to her, saw and related to it. Someone who didn't hold with men who kept women from following their dreams." He took another sip, coughing at the heat.

Dean's head spun a little, the alcohol hitting him as he considered Sam's words. Images swirled around in his brain, dropping into place one by one like pebbles falling into water, creating little ripples that formed interlocked circles before spreading outward.

The angry forest. The massacre in the house. Anger; frustration; murder. Dark, thick blood soaking into wood, a spirit of retribution taking shape and--

"It's the house, right? The house killed him," Dean blurted

Sam nodded slowly, rolling the glass between his hands. 

"I think so. Thistledown House was the sanctuary for those women, and they were murdered in it. For having the 'audacity' to live their own lives, fulfill their own dreams. The men of the town couldn't stand it. Everyone decided they must be witches, and so they were killed in cold blood." He drank the rest of his liquor down. "And all the blood they shed in there stained that house. Cursed it."

Dean leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Are you saying that when it senses a woman's life is oppressed, the house--"

"Kills them. Yes. That's why there's a semi-regular death rate, and the resultant sale of the house. How often do men oppress women's lives, their spirits?" Sam snorted and poured himself more tequila. "All too fucking often."

"So...they aren't even witches. There's no magic involved. The curse is simply their combined anger."

"Yup. Fury is a forceful emotion, and here it's times the number of those women who were butchered."

Dean put his glass down and rubbed his face, feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach. He was a womanizer, sure; he'd had a lot of sex, picked up a lot of women in his day. But he didn't think he'd ever kept a woman from choosing her own life, and he was appalled at how often and how easily other men did it.

Still, they had to do something about this. People couldn't keep getting killed just because they were chauvinistic assholes.

With all of this new understanding of the situation surrounding Thistledown House, a thought occurred to Dean, and he shared it with Sam.

"So, why are the women pissed at me? I've never told a woman not to do whatever they wanted. Even Jo--sure, I told her being a hunter sucks, it's dangerous, but once she made up her mind, I left it at that. Ellen fussed at her more than me."

Sam looked puzzled. "I don't know. You never ordered Lisa or Cassie around either, from what you've told me." He ran a hand through his hair, musing for a moment. "Let's backtrack a minute. What exactly did you experience at the house, before we went up into the woods?"

Dean blew out a breath. "Well, we had just finished going through the place, checking it out. You were ahead of me--you were already outside, heading into the trees, and I--" He bit down on his words, halting them abruptly.

_And I lingered there. I saw a vision of your life the way it could have been--should have been--before I took you away from it. Before Jessica burned and you were stuck with me instead._

_And I was_ glad. _Fucking glad you were with_ me, _regardless of what you wanted._

"Fuck it, Sammy. Never mind. I figured it out." Dean shot the last of his booze, frowning.

"Dean, what--" Sam looked perplexed, eyebrows raised questioningly. 

"I think we need to do a double-feature here. Salt and burn at the house and also at the graveyard, just to make sure everyone is laid to rest once and for all." Dean got up and pulled a hunting duffle out, unzipping it and dumping the contents on the bed. He started rummaging around in them, pulling out flasks of holy water, a box of salt. "We don't want to take the chance that their spirits just shift venues."

"Dean!" Sam got up and grabbed Dean's arm. "Talk to me! I'm not going to go salt and burn a bunch of pissed-off spirits without knowing what's going on in your head!"

Dean shook his head, refusing to look at Sam, but Sam grabbed his other arm and forcibly turned Dean to face him.

"Come on, tell me." His face had that stubborn look Dean recognized from when he was a kid, full of questions and sass. Before life took and took and took from him, leaving him alone with Dean as his only option.

Dean sighed. "Okay! Fine! I just--" He looked away, and then back at Sam, meeting his eyes evenly. "I couldn't help thinking that that house was the kind of home you and...you and Jessica would have had. You'd have been some rich lawyer, lots of money. Two kids and a dog running around that big yard, playing on that fancy play set. No monsters to worry about. Except I came along and started a fucking chain reaction that ended with Jess burning on the ceiling, and you being stuck with a grunt like me instead."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, I've told you before. I'd have ended up here anyway. You didn't do it. You didn't burn her. You didn't change my life--I did." Sam let go of Dean's arms. "No matter what, Dean, we'd have ended up here." He gestured at the room, the hunting supplies on the bed.

Dean could feel tears prickling at the back of his eyes. "I don't think so, but that's not the worst part, Sammy. That's not why the house didn't like me." He looked away, trying to avoid Sam's open, pleading face.

Sam gave him a gentle shake. "What is it? Dean, look at me."

Dean clenched his teeth, keeping his face turned away from Sam. Sam snorted and gave him another little shake. "Don't hide from me, Dean. We're past this. Tell me.'

"Part of me--part of me is...glad. Because you're with me." A couple of rogue tears trickled out as Dean finally brought his eyes back to Sam's again. "I couldn't have made it all these years without you. You're the best...the most important part of me." Dean dragged a sleeve over his face. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I understand if you're disgusted."

Strong arms wrapped around Dean, squeezing him so hard he almost couldn't breathe. Warm air puffed on his ear as Sam whispered.

" _You_ are the most important part of me too, Dean. The best part of me." A soft kiss pressed against Dean's neck. "I'm yours, and I always have been."

They stayed like that for a long moment. Dean coughed, and Sam pulled back, his eyes searching Dean's face.

Dean mustered a smile. "Then let's pack up our stuff and get this done."

They decided to torch the graveyard first. Burning the house would attract a lot more attention, and they'd have to book it fast when they were done. They wouldn't need much accelerant for the fire in the woods, so they could save that for the house. They checked to make sure they had plenty of salt, matches, and a couple of shovels for digging up the graves and also in case they needed to make a firebreak.

The woods were dark; the skies were clear, but the moon was new and there was no real light to be discerned. Sam carried the first gas can, a shovel, and his shotgun filled with salt rounds. Dean also had a shovel and a shotgun, along with an iron crowbar and a duffle with matches, holy water, and more salt in it. They picked their way through the woods, Dean leading as Sam hadn't been there, but even Dean found it hard to find the graveyard with his flashlight.

The fence startled them when they came upon it suddenly, poking up in sharp silhouetted spears against the tree trunks, washed of color. Sam bit his lip as he looked around. It was a sad place, lonely and bare, with just the big, flat rock bearing witness to the bodies that lay underneath. The air felt oppressive; it would be easy to say it was the cloistering tree branches, but Sam knew it was more than that. It was the unhappiness of the dead spirits here, disturbed and angry.

"Wow," Sam murmured. "Think it could get any bleaker?"

"Yeah," agreed Dean. "You can feel the anguish."

Silently, they dropped their jackets and gear, taking up the shovels and beginning to dig. They started in the middle of the fenced area, using the rock as the center of the axis. The soil was firm, packing down year after year, decade after decade. Sam soon found himself sweating in the cool night air and stripped off his flannel, working just in his t-shirt.

While the number of bodies made the digging area larger, they had been thrown in all together, so once there was a respectable pit, Sam and Dean could see piles of bones. Stark against the loamy soil, the sight of those bones, some with shreds of rotted fabric still clinging like cobwebs, brought the entire crime into sharp relief in Sam's head. These weren't just old bones--these had been women; vital, living women of different ages, temperaments, souls. All harmoniously existing together until men had decided that they were evil, murdered them, then unceremoniously dumped their blood-soaked bodies here. Sam wondered who had laid the rock down, had scratched those dates and initials into it. Some teenage girl perhaps, half-afraid, half-admiring, sneaking out at night to pay their respects.

Sometimes the grief and pain of death threatened to swallow him up, Sam thought, his vision graying under the onus of their work. Like now.

A firm, warm hand gripped his shoulder. He turned and green eyes, almost glowing with emotion in the darkness, studied him.

""s okay," said Dean softly. "It was a terrible thing done to them. Now we can set them free. Lay them to rest."

Sam nodded. It was that kind of knowledge that helped them deal with death and these uneasy spirits. Often, that was the only solace they could take.

Dean sprinkled holy water over the bones, wanting to be thorough as possible in dealing with a mass grave and such angry spirits. He told Sam that, being on unconsecrated ground and with so many bodies, it couldn't hurt to add that blessing. They poured the salt lavishly for that reason as well. Once the salt lay thickly over the bones, Sam doused the pit with gasoline. The brothers stood side-by-side for a moment. There'd been no manifestations as of yet, so Sam took a moment to wish the souls here Godspeed and hope that they found contentment when they moved on. He didn't ask Dean what his thoughts were, but judging by the pensive expression on his brother's face, Sam figured they were similar to his own.

Sam and Dean both struck a match, each of them setting a match book alight before letting the burning book drop into the pit. The gas caught immediately, flames flaring bright and hot, consuming any non-organic matter in seconds. The bones popped and cracked in the heat, the sound seeming to echo like gunshot in the clearing. 

They waited an hour, watching for the flames to die down before shoveling the earth back in. Sam felt somewhat fatigued by this point, drained by both physical effort and emotional turmoil, but knew the second salt and burn had to be done. He dug a protein bar out of a jacket pocket, offering one to Dean as they walked back through the wood to town.


	3. Chapter 3

Thistledown House looked ghostly indeed in the pallor of a lone street lamp. Sam felt a small resurgence of energy, partly from the protein bar he'd eaten and partly with the adrenaline of another burn to do. The graveyard had been still and silent, but it was unrealistic to think both sites would be quiet. The odds were that the resistance they'd anticipated would be full-force here at the house.

He stopped at the edge of the yard and drank from a water bottle he had in his jacket. Dean did likewise before nodding at Sam, signaling that he was ready.

As they had the first time, they entered from the back, slipping through the patio sliding door into the kitchen. Scarcely had the sliding door been shut again than they heard faint moans.

_intruders_

_begone_

_hate you  
hate you_

_nooooooooo_

_gooooooooooo_

They had to brace themselves against a wall as a fierce wind gusted around then, chilly and strong. 

"Stop!" cried Dean. "We're here to lay you to rest! You'll have peace!"

_liar liar  
liar_

_liar_

_liar liar  
liar  
_

The whispered words hissed past them. Sam felt Dean grip his forearm with one strong hand and pull him forward.

"Come on! Stairs!"

They pushed against the wind, which was now upsetting decorations and pictures, knocking down flower vases and shoving chairs around. Sam felt like his bones were icing up, with the extreme cold of the gale penetrating his clothes and skin. Foot by foot, they struggled their way to the back stairs. Dean gripped the balustrade with one hand and pulled Sam up with his other.

"Let me take point!" Sam yelled in Dean's ear. He was bigger, but he also hoped the spirits would then lighten the attack, as they were not favorably inclined to Dean. Sam took hold of Dean's wrist and began to slowly ascend the staircase.

Each step was laborious. Sam would never have thought a staircase could take so much effort to climb, but with the wind pushing back so hard, it was like climbing Everest. His footing was treacherous, as the wind tried to grab each foot as he lifted it. He gave a quick look back and saw Dean clutching the railing to anchor himself as he too fought for each step.

A book slammed into Sam's cheek, the impact startling him and making his face smart. He almost got one in the nose, but managed to raise a hand and deflect it. He heard Dean grunt behind him, but couldn't spare even a glance for his brother. 

At last they made it to the top, breathing hard. Sam huffed a sigh of relief. The doors upstairs slammed open, opening and shutting like flapping wings, thudding against the plaster walls. Sam dimly heard glass breaking, sharp cracks as if rifles were firing. Again, he had to put his hand up and protect his face from flying shards.

"I ask you to stop! It's time to rest!" he shouted, the wind muffling his words.

_liar_

_men lie_

_men lie_

_you lie_

_men hurt_

_kill  
go away  
go away_

_go_

_go_

_go or you die_

_die_

_die_

_die_

"You okay, Dean?" Sam shouted, still unable to turn and look at Dean.

"Yeah, keep going!" Dean answered, his voice hoarse.

Sam the trek down the hallway. Lights flickered madly, and the doors resumed their flapping. The hissing words were constant now--a litany of anger and warning. Sam couldn't blame them. These had been victims, betrayed in a callous, cowardly way, slaughtered in their beds. They had no reason to trust men.

He tried to open his mind as much as he could, hoping the spirits would see his intent, read his soul. Perhaps the gale lessened a hair around his face? Sam tried to project his mission, that of laying the spirits to a final, peaceful rest. It felt like he met less resistance, staggering down the hallway in a somewhat easier gait.

"Sam!"

Dean yelled and Sam turned at the panic in Dean's voice. 

His brother lay prone on the floor, his jacket and duffle stripped away from him. As Sam watched, Dean struggled unsuccessfully to free his limbs from invisible bindings, judging by his thwarted efforts at movement. 

"Dean!" Sam tried to go toward Dean, but he too fought an invisible barrier. "Stop this!" Sam yelled.

_men_

_men bad_

_men hurt_

_men kill_

"No! We're not here to kill or hurt!" Sam pleaded.

Dean's body suddenly and swiftly shot down the hallway through a bedroom door. It slammed shut after him.

Sam almost fell over with the cessation of the wind. It was still and quiet. His panting sounded loud in the motionless air.

"Dean!"

Sam raced to the door and pounded on it, fists hammering at the wood.

"Dean! Are you okay? Dean!" Sam rattled the glass knob and banged again. "Stop it! Let me in!"

The door abruptly gave way, letting Sam almost fall into the room.

Dean lay in the middle of the bare room, looking as though he were still bound, his arms next to his motionless body and his legs rigid. He panted softly, his breath coming and going in short, sharp gasps.

Around him stood a half-circle of women clad in long gowns of cotton and flannel. Their hair was in braids or covered in soft fabric caps. Sam knew these were the nightclothes of a hundred years or more ago.

These were the women of Thistledown House.

It would almost have been a charming sight except for the red blotches haphazardly scattered over their various gowns. Sprinkles of scarlet, splatters of maroon, huge circles of crimson besmirched the chests, stomachs, and the caps of some of the women. It took the cozy sight into the realm of the utterly macabre; the innocence of the modest clothes twisted and ruined by the gouts of blood that had stained them at the moment of their horrible death.

Sam wanted to throw up.

_see_

_see  
see you see you see you see  
_

"Yes, I see. I know." Sam's throat felt clogged, the words choking out.

_the men  
the men  
the men_

_we died_

_we died_

_we died  
DIED DIED DIED DIED_

__

Sam heard them; heard the moans, the cries, the screams of their dying. Their words reverberated in his head like drum beats, even though their mouths never moved. Their eyes burned at him, hot coals in their white faces. 

"I know," Sam whispered. "I'm so sorry. It was wrong."

_wrong_

_wrong_

_wrong_

_but still we are_

_we are  
we are  
DEADDEADDEADDEADDEAD_

_WE ARE DEADDEADDEADDEAD_

Sam blinked. Each of the women had a hand raised, full sleeves hanging gracefully or gathered up in flounces at the wrist. He couldn't tell what they were going to do.

A flash of light, and he saw. In each woman's hand lay a bullet. A small bit of metal rested on their pallid palms.

In unison, the bullets rose up a few inches, hovering in the air.

Sam gasped in terror.

"No! No! He's not--he's not one of them!"

_life killer_

_like them_

_took your life_

_like them like them like them_

_killer killer killer killer_

_die now_

_his turn_

Sam shook his head. "No! He's not a life killer! He's never ruined anyone's life!" He gulped, panic choking him. "Whose life did he kill?"

He didn't hear an answer, but he felt it. Felt it in their glowing eyes as they regarded him, bullets ready to kill his brother.

"No, no. It's not--it wasn't like that," Sam whispered, throat gone dry. "He didn't do it. I chose. It was my life, and I _chose._

_we saw_

_he showed us  
saw his regret_

_saw his joy_

_he knew  
knows  
admits_

_his fault his fault his fault_

_HIS HIS HIS HISHISHISHIS_

"No." Sam set his jaw, stared back at the glowing eyes. "No. It isn't like that."

The bullets moved, drawing into a circle above Dean's chest. Sam could hear his brother's shallow breathing, could sense his heart rabbiting in his chest. He closed his eyes, and Sam could see Dean's life pulsing through the thin, delicate skin there, dark lashes fluttering ever so slightly.

Sam dove. He threw his body over his brother's, one hand raised to fend off the attack. 

_**NO! No! He didn't do that! He's not like that!**_ he thought loudly.

_yes yes yesyesyes_

_must die must go must die go die_

"Please...I'll show you. Give me one minute. Just one," Sam said aloud softly.

The bullets quavered in the air, then rested back on the women's palms.

_one_

_because no one has asked before_

Sam bowed his head in thanks. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

He envisioned ripping his head open. Light spilled out, illuminating the room and creating sharp shadows of the motionless figures. His brain lay exposed, pink and twitching.

Sam pushed out his memories.

_  
Christmas. Dean always making sure there was a present for Sam. Cheap, home-made, even stolen--there would be one package for Sam to open._

_A lean night, only cereal for dinner. Sam exercising his little brother privilege to ask for the last of the Froot Loops, and Dean giving them to him._

_Dean's one experience of a normal life at Sonny's--good grades, guitar, a girl--and leaving it all behind to take care of Sam._

_Pulling Sam out of the apartment, away from Jessica burning..._

_Mornings 'after', Dean going to get coffee and breakfast for them._

_Fight after fight, Dean throwing himself in front of Sam._

_One unspoken 'anniversary' night, Dean taking off his silver ring and silently putting it on Sam's hand._

_Trading his own soul, sacrificing his life for eternity in Hell to bring Sam back from the dead..._

_Dean has given Sam everything there is to give._

Sam opened his eyes and the light faded. He could feel that his cheeks were wet.

"See," he said aloud again. "He loves me. He wouldn't deny me anything. He saved me." Sam wiped his cheeks, conscious of Dean's heart pounding underneath Sam's belly.

The women were silent and still. Sam looked at each one, studied their features.

"I promise to remember. To always remember you. But please don't take him." Sam's voice broke, and tears dripped off his jaw. "I love him. He loves me. We are...we are soulmates. Meant to be together for always. Please don't take him from me. We'll both be alone."

In a second, all of the women disappeared except one. She had been middle-aged when she died, and her hair was tucked up under one of the puffy nightcaps. Little curly tendrils escaped and softened her stern face. She stepped closer to Sam, who stood up from where he lay over Dean.

_you are.........special_

_together you are........special_

_I look beyond and I see it_

_you speak the truth_

Sam didn't worry about wiping off his tears. He had nothing to hide from this woman.

"Are you Miss Sylvie?"

She nodded.

Sam gestured to Dean. "Will you let him live? Will you let us be together?"

_yes_

Sam reached down and grabbed Dean's hand. Bonds removed, Dean stood up with Sam's help.

"Thank you," Dean said, his voice gravelly.

She nodded to him and turned back to Sam.

"May we--would you like to be at peace?" Sam asked gently. "It's been a long time. Would you like to take your girls and rest?"

A breeze wafted through the room, rustling Sam's jacket. Miss Sylvie's little curls fluttered on her shoulders.

_yes_

Sam let go of Dean's hand and reached out. Miss Sylvie raised her pale hand and _placed_ it on Sam's broad palm. He shivered at the spectral chill, but closed his fingers delicately over hers.

_thank you_

The warmth that flowed into Sam's body through Miss Sylvie's hand took his breath away. He closed his eyes, overcome.

When he opened them, she was gone.

Dean stood there looking at him.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam took a deep breath, trying to sort out all of the emotions roiling inside him. "Um, mostly, I guess. Might take a while to process all of this. But yeah, okay enough."

He patted Dean on the chest. "Let's get this done. They're...they're ready to go."

They salted every floor, and laid down small piles of burnables, soaking them with gasoline. Those would help spread the fire and keep it going until the entire house was gone. Ending up down in the kitchen. Dean waited outside on the patio. Sam hesitated and looked around one last time. He thought he saw skirt hems flouncing, heard light voices laughing. 

"Godspeed," he said. "Go into the light and be at peace."

A wordless murmur...

faint impressions of lips brushing his cheek...

Sam raised his arm and poured the rest of the gas over the kitchen linens piled by the stove. He flipped the burners on and sped outside, joining Dean on the lawn.

"Let's go."

As they raced across the yard, shadows danced in the flame-lit windows, skirts swirling as they moved, fading into plumes of smoke as the house began to burn.


End file.
